Meanwhile the war cloud in Europe was growing apace.  Holland had been forced into an alliance with France.  War, no longer a spectre, but a grim monster, stalked the Continent.  Everywhere the hostile arts of Bonaparte were rousing the nations.  The breezes that had stirred the marshes of Havelet and awakened in Brock a sense of impending danger, now a furious gale, swept the empires.  The roll of drums and roar of cannon that Isaac had listened to in his boyhood dreams were now challenging in deadly earnest.  The great reveille that was awakening the world was followed by the British buglers calling to arms the soldiers of the King.

Notwithstanding the aversion of the English prime minister, Pitt, to commence hostilities, war was unavoidable.  One of the twelve battalions of infantry selected for the front was the 49th.  When the orders were read for the regiment to join the expedition to Holland, wild excitement prevailed in barracks.  Active service had come at last.  The parting of Brock with his family was softened by maternal pride in his appearance.

The tunic of the 49th was scarlet, with short swallow-tails.  The rolling lapels were faced with green, the coat being laced with white, with a high collar.  The shako, which was originally surmounted by white feathers with black tips, a distinction for services in the American war of 1776, at Bunker’s Hill and Brandywine, was, at Brock’s special request, replaced by a black plume.  The officers wore their hair turned up behind and fastened with a black “flash.”  The spectacle of Master Isaac thus arrayed, in all the glory of epaulets and sabretache and the gold braid of a full colonel, reconciled the inhabitants of St. Peter’s Port to his departure.

By the end of August the first division of the British army, of which the 49th was a unit, was aboard the transports in the Zuyder Zee, off the coast of Holland, and early one morning, under the command of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, with blare of trumpets and standards flying, they effected a landing under the guns of the ships of the line, of which, with frigates and sloops, there were well-nigh sixty.  Brock had often listened to the roar of shot and shell in target practice and sham fight, but of a cannonade of artillery, where every shrieking cannon-ball was probably a winged messenger of death, this was his first experience.  He now learned that in the music of the empty shell of experiment and the wicked screech of the missiles of war there was an unpleasant difference.  He did not wince, but sternly drew himself together, thought of home, begged God’s mercy, and awaited the command to advance with an impatience that was physical pain.